


Now Your Life's No Longer Empty

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Cas that's creepy, Crisis of Faith, Daddy Issues, Friendship/Love, Gen, Prayer, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean prays to him.  Every night.  Castiel hears every word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Your Life's No Longer Empty

 

* * *

Since taking his vessel, since coming to Earth, Castiel has had the power to go anywhere, be anywhere. Sit atop Everest. Float on the brink of the Laurentian Abyss. Lie at the _bottom_ of the Laurentian Abyss. Since Dean Winchester began praying to him, he's found a more astounding place to be.

* * *

“I'm the one who gripped you tight, and raised you from perdition.”  
Every night, when Dean finally lies down to sleep, no matter how wrung out, those words play in his head, and he is stirred. Often, his mind is already drifting away in exhaustion, in grief or frustration, but, in this way, he realized he could pray.  
He had never prayed. He believed in demons, but not god, and not angels. It made no sense not to believe. If there is tangible evil, there must be tangible good. But Dean Winchester doesn't operate from a place of sense. If you look at Dean's life so far, it makes sense for this man not to trust in the existence of good, or justice, fairness. He's not learned faith, but trust. Trust that there will always be another demon, or ghost, or horror down the road. Faith, for Dean, is really trust in what has been proven. And that's no kind of faith at all.  
And since Dean would never pray to evil, he never prayed.

* * *

No human had ever prayed to Castiel before. He was a soldier, the wielder of a sword, one of the host, not a performer of miracles. There were better angels than him for that. Being invoked, having one's attention begged, being entreated over and over... it dredged up echoes of his vessel's human experience. Jimmy Novak had a child. Now Castiel suspects he understands what it was like to be called in the night for comfort, for protection, for reassurance, for company. If Dean had prayed for a glass of water, he might have been compelled to bring one.  
Incorporeal before possessing his vehicle, the first flesh he had touched was Dean Winchester's. He had seized his shoulder, wrapped his hand around him, yanked him from hell, searing him in a way hell had never managed. In his unfettered angelic magnificence, he left a print on Dean's skin, but Dean had left a mark on Castiel as well.

* * *

Angels are real. Angels are very powerful, and real, and sometimes dicks. Castiel is better than most. And he is real. And good. He has healed Dean so many times, taken his physical pain, and soothed his psyche either on purpose or just by dint of appearing when Dean wanted him to, needed him to.  
Dean felt uncomfortable at first, calling for Cas, speaking out to no one, until he was heard often enough, deemed worthy of an appearance enough, that he accepted his worth in the eyes of an angel. An _angel_ , for god's sake. He would never share it with Sam or Bobby or anyone, but it felt like a superpower, made him unique. Sam was so smart, so was Bobby. All Dean had was his duty, fierce loyalty, smart mouth, and a hard skull that never quit no matter how many times it got smashed against a wall. Castiel came to him when he called. That was just the way it worked out, and they left him to it.  
So, at night, his words were simple, conversational sometimes (when there was no one else to listen and he needed to talk), but it was the feelings underneath that he unintentionally sent out to the angel, feelings unformed, not well understood, never examined, just pure and potent.

* * *

Receiving prayer is a heady feeling.  
If he had ever heard these prayers in heaven, Castiel would have had a basis for comparison. Incorporeal, untethered by empathy to humans, he could have objectively measured the words of the man, perhaps his motives. Now, in his vessel, every soft thrum of gratitude, of regard, of friendship, every pang at his absence, every beseeching cry for him to attend to Dean Winchester's troubles, sets him to vibrating, an angelic tuning fork singing louder and louder, ringing like to make a human's ears bleed.  
Dean's regard was ineluctable, not to be ignored, and, Castiel found, to be reveled in.  
He finds himself near Dean at night. He waits for the prayers when he can. He stands unseen, watching when there is nothing else too pressing. And there is always something pressing.

* * *

Castiel stands stooped, Dean had noticed right away. He likes that Castiel is smaller than him, that he stands as if the weight of his unseen wings pushes him forward, but really he likes knowing how much of the weight of the world rests on this angel, because Castiel is bound to him, and comes despite it all, if he can. This small, soft-spoken man in a rumpled suit and coat ( _looks like Columbo, talks like Rain Man_ ), likes Dean, trusts him, takes orders from him, allows him to share cases and quests. Makes Dean feel like something. Makes him feel something.  
And when he is falling asleep at night, Dean finally feels that safety net. He talks to Castiel, even just a little bit, and knows that he is heard, and that is very good. He can sleep.

* * *

Dean had taught Castiel about personal space and privacy. That is why, so often, Castiel hides his presence. He stands in the corner, listening as Dean drifts off. He smiles to hear Dean start in with a gruff, “Cas. Cas, you listening?” Then he talks about the latest case, filling him in on the day as if Castiel hadn't been keeping one eye on him already. It feels like pillow talk, a vague memory of something his vessel used to enjoy with his wife. It is very pleasant.  
Lately, Castiel sits on the edge of the bed to listen, next to Dean's hip. He slouches there, head bowed, smiling, heart full to feel this man's soul ease as he murmurs his way into sleep.  
Recently, he's taken to a new habit.  
At first, he would touch Dean's temple with two fingers, healing any small hurts from the day, letting him sleep without pains. Castiel still doesn't understand why _he_ should feel so much better having done this for Dean, his friend, but he does. He accepts that it must be a benefit of occupying a human body. He feels that protective echo from the father that used to be there, a flesh memory.  
But now, he is compelled to bestow more. He brushes his fingertips through Dean's hair, too short to sweep it off his forehead, but he goes through the motion. Castiel leans forward, inhaling and taking pleasure in the scent of him (so many bodily delights to enjoy if he thinks about it), and tenderly presses his lips to Dean's brow. He does this every night now. Sometimes he continues, pressing his soft mouth to each warm eyelid. That makes Castiel very happy to do. He doesn't know why.

* * *

Dean is a wreck. He has spent the last hour draining a bottle, curled up in a ball on the armchair in his bedroom, deep in the bunker. His guilt has reached new depths, and he doesn't know if he wants the thick walls to keep in what guilt he has, or keep more out. Further punishment seems appropriate, so he'd almost welcome more pain. His right hand closes over the cap of his other shoulder, silently mourning the mark he lost that had meant so much.  
He pushes himself up out of the chair, stands unsteadily, turns off the bedside lamp, and flops on his bed, feet planted and fists pressing his eyes. He kicks off his shoes. He doesn't feel Castiel sitting beside him. He never does.  
He's too ashamed to pray tonight. He hopes he will pass out soon.

* * *

Castiel sits there in commiseration, waiting for the prayers to begin. They don't.  
Dean's head moves fitfully on the pillow. He's frowning, heading toward unconsciousness. Castiel reaches out and touches his temple. Dean is instantly free of the effects of the alcohol. His body unravels in spreading bliss as he sinks into the mattress and pillow.  
“Cas? That you?” he asks groggily in the darkness.  
Castiel answers by stroking his hair. Dean exhales softly.  
“Cas... I need you.”  
Castiel leans down and kisses his brow. Dean frowns slightly. Castiel kisses each closed eye and touches his head to Dean's.  
“Cas....”  
Castiel reaches out to feel Dean's soul, and sees him, as he'd seen into him the first time they'd met.  
“You don't think you deserve to be loved,” Castiel rumbles, astonished. He pulls back and smooths his hand along the side of Dean's face.  
“Cas...,” Dean sighs.  
“That's okay. I love you.”  
This time he presses his mouth to Dean's. It's chaste, but encompassing. Castiel pulls away, heart brimming.  
Dean squeezes his eyes tight. A tear runs down the creases. He reaches out and clutches Castiel's sleeve. He holds it until he falls asleep moments later.  
Castiel sighs. He hopes Dean will remember this in the morning. If not, he will remind him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by asnowyowl. Thank you. 
> 
> The title of the story is taken from, what else, "Carry On, Wayward Son."  
>  _Now your life's no longer empty/_  
>  Surely heaven waits for you?  
> 


End file.
